


Tinker's Yule Log Disaster

by ningloreth



Series: Tinker the House-elf [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment's inattention lands Tinker the house-elf in big trouble, then things go from bad to very-much-worse, but—luckily—Tinker's loyalty to the Malfoys and his love for Mrs Draco have no limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tinker's Yule Log Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for organising this wonderful fest again, and thank you for letting me take part :-) 
> 
> The prompt was _Yule Log_. 
> 
> Tinker the house-elf is also the hero of [The Best Laid Plans...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/277352). This story takes place two years later, but it isn't necessary to have read the first story to follow this one. The folklore about the Yule Log is something I read when doing research for a _Lord of the Rings_ story a few years ago, and the 'terrible god' is inspired by the Finnish god, Tapio. I imagine the painting looking something like [this](http://www.eryn-carantaur.com/tinker/hughes.jpg) portrait of Peg Hughes by Sir Peter Lely.

_“Matty!” cried Tinker the house-elf, spotting his friend at work in the Great Hall and trotting over to investigate. “What is Matty doing?”_

_“Master Draco wants Matty to light a small fire,” said Matty, “to dry out the chimney, so it won't smoke when Mrs Draco lights the Yule Log.”_

_“Good,” said Tinker._

_Tinker loved Christmas._

_He loved the garlands of holly and the bunches of mistletoe. He loved the Christmas tree standing in the Entrance Hall, with its shiny baubles and its sparkly tinsel, and its hundreds of tiny candles. He loved the Christmas presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper and tied with ribbons, piled high beside the Great Hall fireplace (especially the presents waiting for_ him _, from Mrs Draco)._

 _But, most of all, Tinker loved the_ Yule Log _._

 _Every year, the house-elves went into the Forest at the edge of the Malfoy estate to find a fallen tree, cut it to size, and haul it up to the house (all of which was_ very _hard work)._

 _And then, on Mother Night, the_ senior _house-elf helped the lady of the manor set the Yule Log ablaze by handing her a tiny remnant of the previous year's log to use as kindling, so that the circle of the years would remain unbroken, and the Malfoy family would continue to enjoy good fortune._

 _(The Malfoys had never actually_ appointed _Tinker senior house-elf, but Master Draco and Mrs Draco had always relied on him, and the rest of the house-elves all looked up to him, so...)._

_The previous year, like every other year, on Twelfth Night, Tinker had fished a tiny piece of wood from the dying embers of the great fire, and carefully sealed it in a jewelled casket (which some ancient Malfoy had had made especially for the purpose), and had placed the casket on a high shelf in the Library, where no meddling hands could_ Meddle _with it._

_Now, Tinker opened the casket (which he had brought into the Great Hall three days early, to be sure it was ready in good time), and looked inside. The little piece of Yule Log, all black and crinkly, was safe in its velvet nest, and Tinker couldn't resist lifting it out, and sniffing it._

_It smelled of smoke, and pine, and_ Christmas _—_

_“Tinker, can you come here a minute?”_

_Mrs Draco's voice brought a big smile to Tinker's normally quite worried-looking face. “That is Mrs Draco,” he said, proudly._

_“Matty knows.”_

_“Mrs Draco wants Tinker to go to her.”_

_“Matty knows.”_

_“Tinker?”_

_Tinker hurried off to see what Mrs Draco wanted._

_..._

_Tinker made a little bow. “Mrs Draco...”_

_“_ Hermione _.”_

_“Mrs Draco-a-mione—”_

_“No, no, just—oh, never mind.” Mrs Draco crouched down to Tinker's level. “I have a very important job for you today,” she said. “Mister Draco's Christmas present is arriving this morning,”—she grinned, and her shoulders shot up towards her ears, which made her look like a naughty house-elf—“and I have to go into London, Tinker, so I need_ you _to sign for it and then hide it somewhere Mister Draco won't find it. Can you do that for me?”_

_“Yes, Mrs Draco.”_

_“Thank you, Tinker. You're my rock.” And, smiling, Mrs Draco hugged Tinker, and kissed the top of his head._

_..._

_Tinker waited_ three hours _for the Top Secret delivery, and then it took him_ two _attempts to Apparate it up to the attic, because the magic inside was so strong._

 __Then _Tinker had to organise the decorating of the Ballroom, and supervise the cleaning of the Morning Room, and arrange a nice lunch for Master Draco, and it was almost two o'clock before Tinker remembered the little piece of log..._

_Where was it?_

_Tinker's hands were empty, and—he patted his waistcoat—so were his pockets._

_He must have_ dropped _it!_

_Tinker rushed back into the Great Hall, saw the empty casket lying on the floor, and Matty's fire burning merrily in the fireplace, and his heart leaped up into his throat..._

_And then it sank._

_Right down into his boots._

_..._

_That night, Tinker tossed and turned._

_He had let down the long line of his senior house-elf predecessors, let down his mother, who had always been so proud of him, and—most of all—Tinker had let down Mrs Draco who, this year, was supposed to be lighting the Yule Log (because Mr Lucius Malfoy and Mrs Lucius were spending Christmas with relations in France)._

_When, at last, Tinker fell asleep, he dreamed of his mother, telling him stories of the terrible god of the great northern forest..._

_And when Tinker woke up, he had a_ Plan _._

_..._

_It was snowing in the great northern forest, and Tinker was glad he'd thought to put on his fur hat, his duffle coat, and the thick, woolly socks that Mrs Draco had given him the previous Christmas._

_Tall trees stretched in every direction and, within seconds, Tinker had been completely lost, but on and on he tramped, desperately hoping that he could find the realm of the terrible god and still be back at Malfoy Manor to serve breakfast._

_By the time Tinker felt a shiver of awe run down his spine, so much snow had gathered on his hat and duffle coat, and had melted in his socks, he was afraid that the terrible god would mistake him for a snowball._

_With his head already bowed beneath the weight of snow, Tinker peered out from under his hat and, for a split-second, his big eyes met those of the terrible god, with his beard of lichen and his eyebrows of green moss..._

_Then Tinker lowered his gaze, and stared at his own wet feet._

_“WHO ENTERS MY REALM?” asked the terrible god, his voice rumbling like the plumbing at Malfoy Manor._

_“T-tinker.”_

_“WHY?”_

_Tinker described how he'd lost the little piece of Yule Log and now feared for the Malfoy family's future prosperity. “You are the t-terrible god of the northern forest,” Tinker said, “l-lord of the Yule Log and the f-festive hearth. T-tinker thought that, if anyone can, you can b-bring it back.”_

_“HMMMM,” said the terrible god._

_Tinker waited._

_“WHAT YOU ASK_ CAN _BE DONE,” said the terrible god, at last, “BUT ONLY BY ONE WHO IS BRAVE, AND TRUE OF HEART. FIRST, YOU MUST CUT A PIECE FROM THE NEW YULE LOG AND BURN IT IN A HAPPY HEARTH. THEN, YOU MUST PERFORM THESE THREE TASKS...”_

 _Tinker listened carefully to the terrible god's instructions, thanked the terrible god for answering his prayer and then, having backed a respectful distance away, Apparated home to Malfoy Manor (where he_ did _arrive just in time to serve breakfast)._

_..._

_In the lull after the breakfast things had been cleared away, Tinker sneaked outside and cut a little piece off the new Yule Log, took it up to Master Draco and Mrs Draco's bedroom, set it in the hearth and, using a transfigured candle, seared it black._

_Tinker examined the results critically._

_No one would ever guess..._

_He Apparated down to the Great Hall, and popped the charred wood into the casket._

_Then, in the privacy of his own bedroom, he considered the first of his three tasks (which he’d scratched onto a scrap of parchment, so he wouldn't forget them)._

_Tinker knew that 'a fair maiden' was an old-fashioned name for a lady._

_But the only ladies Tinker knew were Mrs Lucius, who was in France, Miss Astoria Greengrass, who hadn't been to Malfoy Manor in years, (so he didn't think it likely he'd get a chance to rescue either of_ them _), and Mrs Draco._

_Tinker folded the parchment, hid it under his pillow, and went to find Mrs Draco._

...

“What are _you_ up to?” asked Draco Malfoy, suspiciously. 

He'd been sitting in the Library, reading boring financial reports, for most of the morning, so to say that he was _curious_ to see his beloved wife slinking towards him with a sprig of mistletoe was something of an understatement. 

“Nothing,” his wife replied.

“Is that so...?” Draco was sufficiently sure of his own charms to assume that, in this case, he knew exactly what her 'nothing' meant. Raising an eyebrow at his wife, he slowly brought his free hand down to his lap and unfastened the top button of his fly...

His wife's expression remained neutral.

Undaunted, Draco carried on, unfastening the second button...

If anyone had asked him, ten minutes earlier, whether reading a rival company's financials was a reliable way to keep a man's ardour in check, he would definitely have answered yes, but now—all of a sudden—he had substantial proof that that wasn't the case. Dropping the report on the floor, and with his eyes still locked on his wife, he used both hands to unfasten the third and fourth buttons and free himself...

His wife's face betrayed nothing.

Draco spread his hands, displaying the goods on offer.

Still nothing.

“Are you _ever_ going to come over here, woman,” he demanded, in exasperation, “or am I going to have to do it all by myself?”

“Mmm,” replied his wife, with a wicked smile, “that would be fun to watch.”

“ _You_ are a very kinky witch, Granger.”

“And _you_ , Malfoy... 

“Love it,” she teased, sinking to her knees between his splayed legs. “Now,” she purred, “just lean back... Right back... That's it... _Mmmmmm_.”

...

“So you got it downstairs all right?” said Hermione, three quarters of an hour later, as she closed the door of the small Morning Room—the closest thing she had to her own personal space at Malfoy Manor—and locked it behind her. 

Her co-conspirators, Tinker and Meddle, were sprawling on the floor like two house-elf bookends, propping up a small wooden packing crate, about two feet square and eight inches thick.

“No, stay where you are,” said Hermione, when she realised that Tinker was trying to stand. She crouched down beside him, and examined the crate. “Is it _really_ so heavy?” 

Tinker had, with many apologies, declined to Apparate it down from the attic, claiming that it would be “Too dangerous,” and had instead proposed that he and Meddle should _carry_ it downstairs—which was why it had been Hermione's job to keep her husband occupied for at least thirty minutes.

“Not heavy, Mrs Draco,” said Tinker, wearily. “Powerful.”

“ _Magical?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” agreed Tinker and Meddle together.

Frowning, Hermione ran a hand over it. She'd been intending simply to decorate it with a green and silver ribbon tied in a big bow, and leave it for Draco to open on Christmas Morning, but now she was curious to find out what was making the house-elves so uncomfortable. 

“Go over by the sideboard,” she told the them, helping Meddle to his feet. “You can get yourselves a cordial...”

She drew her wand.

“No, no, Mrs Draco!” shrieked Tinker. “Not _magic_!” Hermione heard a thud, and swung round. 

Both house-elves had assumed a position she could only describe as 'duck and cover'.

“It's all right,” she said, trying to reassure them. “I promise I won't use magic! Look!” 

Tinker cautiously raised his head. 

Hermione put her wand away.

“Tinker will fetch Mrs Draco a tool to open it with,” said Tinker. Moments later, he returned with a crowbar.

Hermione jimmied the lid off the crate, and drew out its contents. 

It was a small oil painting in an exquisite gilded frame, and Hermione could see immediately that the photograph in the catalogue hadn't done it justice. She set it down carefully, leaning it against the leg of her desk.

Its subject, a beautiful if slightly hard-faced woman in her mid twenties, was lolling in a leafy bower. She was dressed in a loose, 'rustic' gown of brown silk, its bodice subtly shaped to lift her bosom and present, for the viewer's delight—Hermione heard Tinker and Meddle _gasp_ —one perfectly-rounded bare breast, with a delicate, rosy nipple.

Beyond the bower, the artist had painted glimpses of a familiar landscape but, when Hermione leaned forward for a better look, the woman—who'd appeared to be sleeping—suddenly roused herself and, staring back at Hermione with a disdainful sneer, muttered to herself, “Mudblood.”

...

“So this is my eight-times-great grandmother,” said Draco, crouching before the painting and peering into it. The woman had retreated into the distance—a tiny figure in billowing silk, tapping her wand against her thigh.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “'A fine portrait',” she added, quoting the auction house's catalogue from memory, “'of Virulia Malfoy, wife of Brutus Malfoy ( _floruit_ 1675), dressed as a shepherdess, in a mythological setting believed to depict the grounds of Malfoy Manor. By a follower of Sir Peter Lely.'”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Draco! It's your Christmas present!”

“And it's a wonderful present, Hermione; it really _is_...”

“But?”

“The house-elves are right.”

“Yes, I think they probably are. That's why I decided to show it to you now, so that we can—”

“No,” Draco interrupted. “Not probably. They _are_. Virulia got in through the wards because she's a Malfoy, but this painting is seething with Dark magic.”

Hermione uttered an unladylike curse. “Do you think it's dangerous?”

Draco drew his wand. “ _Obscuro Revelio_ ,” he said, with a flourish, and a row of glowing sigils appeared, dancing along the top of the picture frame. 

“They didn't teach us _that_ in Defence Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.

“Well, sometimes it takes one to know one,” said Draco. He turned to his wife. “There's some nasty stuff here, but I don't think we Malfoys need worry. _Finite Incantatem_.” 

He called to his ancestor.

Virulia Malfoy walked gracefully into her bower and sat down, arranging herself to show her flawless shoulders and the ripe curve of her breast to their best advantage—and Hermione did _not_ like the way she seemed to be eyeing up her handsome eight-times-great grandson.

“Madam Virulia,” said Draco, politely, “I am your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, Draco Abraxas Malfoy. May I have the honour of introducing my wife, Hermione Jean...”

...

With many mutterings, and much pacing back and forth tapping her wand against her thigh, Virulia Malfoy made it clear that she did not want to be returned to the packing crate, so Draco set the painting on the mantelpiece of the small Morning Room.

For the next few hours—having almost forgotten that the painting existed—Hermione sat at her desk, working on her monograph, _The Humane Treatment of House-elf Servants_ , and it wasn't until she'd completed the first draft, and relaxed her steely concentration, that she noticed a strange tapping noise coming from somewhere behind her...

Hermione turned towards the fireplace. 

Draco's eight-times-great grandmother was standing at the front of the picture, her hands gripping the insides of the frame, rocking her body from side to side, and the entire painting was _moving_ — 

Suddenly, Hermione's little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower, which Draco had bought her on their honeymoon, fell from the mantelpiece and smashed. 

“What are you _doing_?!” Hermione cried. 

As she stooped to gather the pieces, she heard the door open, and felt Tinker—dropping the tea tray with a shout of “Mrs Draco!” —pick her up in a _whoosh_ of magic and, as she whirled through the door and rolled across the marble floor—“ _Owww!_ ”—she heard the painting crash down into the fireplace, before Tinker slammed the door shut with another burst of house-elf magic.

“Ow! Ow, ow, ow!” Hermione whimpered, rocking back and forth and rubbing her ankle, until she saw the tragic look on Tinker's face. “Oh, no, Tinker! No! _Thank you _!” she said, hugging him tightly. “The painting might have fallen on my head! You _rescued___ me!”

She didn't see Tinker's big, round eyes grow even bigger and rounder.

..

_Once Tinker and the others had carried Mrs Draco up to her bedroom and made her comfortable; and Matty had summoned Healer Worme, who had bound up Mrs Draco's ankle with a compress of herbs and told her to keep her weight off it for at least twenty-four hours; and Mrs Draco had made Tinker promise faithfully that he wouldn't, under any circumstances, punish himself for what had happened to her; and Tinker had owled Master Draco in his business meeting and begged him to come home... Tinker at last got a few minutes to dash up to his bedroom to check his list of tasks._

_He was startled (but very relieved) to see that his first task had faded away, leaving nothing but a slight mark on the parchment..._

_But when Tinker re-read his second task, his heart sank._

_Where was_ he _going to find a dragon?_

...

“Come to bed,” said Hermione, in a _blatant_ attempt to get her husband thinking with something other than his brain.

Draco sighed. “You _know_ it has to be destroyed, Hermione. It's a shame, but—”

“One hundred thousand Galleons.”

“What?!”

“But that isn't the point, Draco. She's part of your family. And a magnificent work of art.”

“She tried to _kill_ you.”

“It was an accident! Though I'll admit she's bad tempered—”

“No. Tinker's terrified of her, and no one's more sensitive to Dark magic than a house-elf. I have to destroy it, and the sooner, the better. Besides,” he added, as much to convince himself as to persuade her, “we can't make love. We don't want to make your ankle any worse.”

“We won't,” said his wife, spotting the chink in his armour and going in for the kill, “if _I_ lie back, and think of England, and _you_ ,”—she brought her hand to her bosom and pulled at her night-robe, as though she couldn't bear to be confined in it a second longer—“ _take_ me, Draco...”

 _Blood-y hell_ , thought Draco. _Oh, the painting can wait an hour or so..._

...

Draco leaned down and, still enjoying the glorious after-spasms, kissed his wife thoroughly.

“It was an _accident_ ,” she murmured, when he'd finally finished.

“My _arse_ ,” replied Draco.

But he settled down beside her, and waited until she'd fallen asleep before he threw on his Dressing Robe and Apparated down to the small Morning Room. 

Virulia Malfoy was waiting for him, ramrod straight, apparently ready for a duel.

Draco stood with his back to the door, as far away from the painting as the room would allow. “You tried to kill my wife,” he said, icily.

“The mudblood,” Virulia replied, her small voice full of venom.

“ _My wife_ ,” Draco repeated, angrily.

“That baggage! You should be _ashamed_ to plant your seed in a muddy quim.” She tapped her wand with all the arrogance Draco had come to detest.

“Hermione,” he said, “is one of the most powerful witches of this or any other age, and the brains that defeated the greatest threat the wizarding world has ever faced.” He raised his wand and, without a trace of irony, prepared to cast the Annihilation Curse that Voldemort himself had taught him. But, as he opened his mouth to utter the incantation, a _presence_ seemed to shoot from the painting and enter it, invading his head, and spreading out to every extremity. And when, at last, he managed to roar out some incoherent syllables, they were accompanied by a flaming stream of light.

...

_Tinker had spent most of the evening in the Library, consulting—with Meddle's help—everything he could find on the subject of dragon taming._

_There hadn't been much, and_ that _hadn't been particularly helpful and, besides, Tinker hadn't been able to concentrate properly, what with the Dark magic seeping out of the painting and slithering round the house, seeking Tinker like a Serpentine Curse..._

_At last, Tinker had given in, sent Meddle off to bed and, perching on a side table, had settled down to keep watch, his big eyes fixed on the door of the small Morning Room._

_He would protect his master and mistress with the last of his life's blood._

__Nothing _would get past him._

_..._

_“AAAAAAGGGHHH!”_

_Tinker's eyes snapped open. “Master Draco!” He jumped down from the table and ran to the door._

_The small Morning Room was locked, and strange noises—_ very _strange noises—growls and snarls and_ roars _—were coming from inside..._

_Tinker snapped his fingers and the door flew open, and—_

_“Tinker?”_

_Oh no! Mrs Draco was coming downstairs!_

_Tinker was immediately torn between wondering whether it had actually been twenty-four hours since Mrs Draco had hurt herself, and being horrified by what was happening to Master Draco, for his young master had just turned towards the door and, tilting his head to one side (the way Tinker had seen a peacock eye a delicious morsel of birdseed), was regarding Tinker with glowing, red-and-gold eyes!_

_Then Master Draco's gaze shifted, beyond Tinker, to where Mrs Draco was coming downstairs._

_And Tinker did not like the new expression on Master Draco's face at all._

__Master Draco was not thinking of food _._

_Pushing that thought aside, together with his guilt about the terrible crime he was about to commit, Tinker cast a Confining Curse._

_Master Draco shrugged it off like an unbuttoned robe, and advanced towards the door, forcing Tinker to retreat._

_“Draco, what ever's the matter?” said Mrs Draco._

_Tinker waved his arms frantically, trying to shoo Master Draco back._

_Master Draco snuffled the air, and kept coming._

_Tinker grabbed a chair and, holding it like a toasting fork, poked it at Master Draco's face—_

_Master Draco took a step back—_

_Tinker took a step forwards, threatening—_

_Master Draco took another step back—_

_Tinker took another step forwards, still threatening—_

_Master Draco took another step back—_

_Tinker dropped the chair, rushed out of the small Morning Room and, using his strongest magic, slammed the door shut, and sealed it._

...

“ _Alohomora_ ,” yelled Hermione.

The door to the small Morning Room— _her_ study—remained closed. Hermione turned to Tinker. “What have you _done_?!” she demanded. “Open the door! Open it at once!”

Tinker was cowering before her, a look of pure misery on his little face—which would normally have melted her heart—but, in response to her order, he straightened up, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head.

Hermione grabbed the door handle and shook the door; behind it, something _roared_. “Draco!” she cried, hammering the wood with her fist. “Draco! Please! What's happening?”

“Master Draco is turned into a monster, Mrs Draco,” said Tinker, sadly. With a snap of his fingers, he transfigured the upper panel of the door into a sheet of glass.

Hermione screamed.

Draco's face was pressed against the window, his beautiful, silver-grey eyes glowing red-gold with malice, his clawed hands scratching the frame... But it was the sight of his forked tongue, slipping in and out between his thin lips, that made everything turn black.

...

_“Mrs Draco! Mrs Draco!” Tinker patted Mrs Draco's hand._

_Mrs Draco remained unconscious._

_Matty had fetched a bowl of water and a cloth and was sponging Mrs Draco's forehead._

_Meddle, meanwhile, had found another chair and was standing on it, peering through the glass into the small Morning Room. “Meddle thinks the wicked witch has turned Master Draco into a dragon,” he said._

_Tinker paused in his patting to consider what Meddle had just said, and then to marvel at the way, over the past few days, every_ bit _of his life seemed to have been related in some way to his Yule Log disaster._

_“Meddle,” he said, “pat Mrs Draco's hand.”_

_The moment he was free, Tinker Apparated to his bedroom and examined the parchment. Sure enough, his second task had been magically erased._

_And Tinker had no difficulty understanding what his third task entailed._

...

_Tinker didn't normally like to act without having first worked out a proper_ Plan _, but he knew that, in this case, he couldn't afford to wait._

_With Meddle and Matty's help, he carried Mrs Draco up to her bedroom and laid her on the bed, casting a Slumber Charm so that she would sleep until the morning._

_Then, after a quick trip to the Library to consult_ The Magic of Creatures _by Newton Scamander and_ Forty-two Forensic Spells _by Rolf Merrythought, Tinker approached the door to the small Morning Room with Meddle at his side (in theory, though in practice Meddle was, as usual, lagging behind), and with a promising_ Plan _starting to come together in his mind..._

_..._

_“Open the door,” said Tinker._

_“What if Master Draco gets out?” said Meddle._

_“Meddle will have to catch him,” said Tinker._

_Reluctantly, Meddle cast an Unlocking Charm, and opened the door a tiny crack._

_Tinker squeezed through the gap and quickly surveyed the scene (noting the damage to the paintwork and the upholstery, but deciding to worry about _that_ later). Master Draco was curled up beneath Mrs Draco's desk but, as Tinker tried to tip-toe past, he raised his head..._

_With terrifying speed, Master Draco came at Tinker on all fours—_

_Tinker hopped up onto a chair—_

_Master Draco climbed after him—_

_Tinker jumped to the sideboard—_

_Master Draco tried to swipe Tinker out of the air—_

_But Tinker was too fast! He leaped to the aspidistra stand and, pushing off with both feet (and ignoring the_ crash _), he_ launched _himself, stretching out his arms as he flew through the air (his bow tie fluttering round his ears) towards the portrait of Virulia Malfoy, crying, “_ PEN-E-TROOOooooooooooooooo! _”_

_..._

_The leafy bower seemed much less pleasant on the inside—its branches were rough, its leaves flat, the little stone bench was wonky, and everything smelled of linseed oil._

_No wonder Mrs Brutus was cross._

_There was no sign of Mrs Brutus near the bower, so Tinker set off into the landscape, but it was hard to see round the painted trees and, as he was passing a particularly big oak, Mrs Brutus took him by surprise, leaping out and grabbing him, and pinning him to the tree trunk with a surprisingly strong hand._

_“What do you want,_ traitor _?” she demanded._

_Tinker had to remind himself that this was not the real Mrs Brutus Malfoy, only a painted copy (which had obviously been made on a Very Bad Day), and that Tinker's true loyalties lay with Master Draco and, most of all, with Mrs Draco, who was the kindest, loveliest witch in the entire world..._

_Tinker also had to think of a lie._

_Quickly._

_“Tinker has come to ask Mrs Brutus to put Master Draco back the way he was,” he said, crossing his long fingers behind his back._

_Mrs Brutus shook Tinker roughly. “So he can frig that Mudblood?”_

_“DON'T YOU CALL MRS DRACO THAT_ BAD _WORD!” Tinker shouted, then shrank back, amazed at his own temerity—and Mrs Brutus was clearly just as surprised as he was, for she let go of him... And Tinker seized his chance._

 _“_ PETRIFICUS INFINITUS! _” he bellowed, throwing his arms out and pushing with his hands to intensify the magic._

_Mrs Brutus froze like a statue—only her eyes still seemed alive—then her legs gave way, and she crumpled to the ground._

_“Tinker is sorry,” said Tinker, levitating her into the air, “but Mrs Brutus is too angry—and,” he added, “Mrs Draco has spent a lot of money on Master Draco's Christmas present.” He guided Mrs Brutus back to the leafy bower and lowered her onto the stone bench, propping her up with several broken branches and carefully arranging her gown to hide them._

_Then Tinker surveyed his handiwork. Mrs Brutus looked_ fairly _natural (so Tinker just had to_ hope _that nobody would notice the strange expression on her face)._

_He climbed out of the painting._

_..._

_Master Draco was sleeping peacefully on the rug before the fireplace._

_Tinker knelt down, and gently raised an eyelid; Master Draco's eye was silver-grey again._

_With a sigh of relief, Tinker Apparated Master Draco up to his bedroom and levitated him onto the bed, beside Mrs Draco._

_Then, completely exhausted, Tinker dragged himself to his own room, fell upon the bed and, as his head hit the pillow and he heard the crackle of parchment, found just enough strength to pull out his list, and check it._

_Besides a few smudges, the sheet was blank—_

_“Zzzzzzz._

_“Zzzzzzz._

_“Zzzzzzz...”_

...

“What's wrong?” asked Draco.

Hermione sighed. “I was having the most horrible dream, Draco,” she said. “You were in it, and it was _weird_. Your tongue was forked...”

“Strange...” said Draco. He reached over to the night stand, and poured a glass of water. “Here.”

“What's strange?” She sat up. “Thanks.”

“Oh, nothing—it doesn't matter.” Draco took the empty glass, set it down, and turned back to her with a smile. “You know,” he said, “my tongue may not be forked, but it's still quite talented.”

“Mmmm,” he heard her reply, as he was kissing his way down her body, “your tongue _is_ talented, Draco, but, personally,”—he raised his head and she beckoned him closer, and whispered in his ear—“ _I_ prefer an entirely different part of your anatomy.”

...

_**Mother Night** _

_“Tinker?” said Master Draco._

_Tinker opened the little jewelled casket, took out the precious piece of wood, and handed it to Mrs Draco, who pushed it beneath the Yule Log, touched her wand to it, and said, “_ Incendio! _”_

_The fragment caught immediately, and its flames spread to the new log—whilst Master Draco, Mr Harry Potter, Mrs Harry Potter, Mr Ronald Weasley, and Mrs Ronald (née Miss Pansy Parkinson) all clapped._

_Then Master Draco and Mrs Draco led their friends into the small Dining Room, where they sat down to a festive meal (of spiced cauliflower soup followed by roast turkey with all the trimmings followed by Master Draco's favourite blackberry trifle)._

_And Tinker—fetching and carrying the food, and keeping the glasses filled—was smiling happily, because_ all was well with the world _._

_(At least, Tinker hoped it was)._


End file.
